Behind Faded Walls
by CooWings
Summary: Ichigo and Rukia, a shabby apartment, and the snow. "It is colder than ever but he decides it could wait, everything else could, because she is here."


**Disclaimer: **Bleach, Kubo's. Fiction, mine.

**Summary:** Ichigo and Rukia, a shabby apartment, and the snow.

**Author's notes: **Inspired by the song _A Team_ by Ed Sheeran. NOT a songfic, not really, but the idea comes from song. Tell me if I they turn out OOC to you.

**Warning:** Might be pointless, you have been warned. Also, the ending may feel too rushed. And I'm not sure if it is angsty enough, or if it is angsty at all. YOU tell me.

He grabs her tiny, bony fingers in his large, warm hand; his grip strong and sturdy, almost like iron.

She follows him into his room silently, her breath coming out in short pants; little white rings dancing above her in the chilly Saturday evening air.

He does not bother closing the door, and neither does she.

A sheet of still quietness transcends upon them, engulfs them whole, and she knows the house is theirs to call their own, a quiet sanctuary tucked away behind faded walls; a place she endearingly calls as her favourite hiding place. Neither he nor she bothers with keeping up false pretenses, and behind those faded walls their masks crumbles into a million different pieces, each piece more jagged around the edges than the last.

They stood in the room for a long time, he in front of her, unmoving, listening to each other's breathing; inhale, exhale, more white rings dancing.

White dust floating.

The cold bites down on his skin, and hers, hard; the house a poor shelter from the cold, its walls thin and bare and he thinks there must be holes somewhere that needed some work. It is colder than ever but he decides it could wait, everything else could, because she is here. The reality strikes him hard, like a sharp punch at the back of his head, and for a moment he sees only black spots in his line of vision, but the pain he feels is dull and for a second he is scared that she's gone, that he is alone in the cold little apartment and no one is really there with him.

He yanks at her arm a little harshly then, crashing her small, tiny body against his own strong form. It is careless and for a moment she feels like she is twirling to a silent melody like in a ballet, like one of those coveted ballerinas whose stage performances cost almost a hundred dollars for each paper ticket, but she is used to it and so it is alright.

She knows he needed to confirm that this is real; that she is here with him and not somewhere else in the arms of someone else, whom would be a complete stranger to him but not to her - she is small and little but she has plenty of _"visitors"_, he calls them "_her_ acquaintances", and it hurts his brain to think about how their visits are frequent; and he thinks they must dream of her like he does - touching her in all the secret places, nibbling at her lips as they search for entry; moving their tongues in vulgar ways that only they are capable of doing, and marking her skin, leaving wet kisses along her soft, creamy features, finally knowing what euphoria feels like. He winces as the thought continues to dance at the back of his mind like a plague coming back from the dead; he feels his vision grow blurry and he hates himself for thinking that way but he thinks too much and he knows it.

She closes her eyes knowingly; he feels her arms snake its way around his waist, and he knows she is real and he isn't sure whether he should laugh in joy or cry in relief, because tomorrow morning he knows she will disappear again.

"Ichigo."

Her voice is low and soft against the constant buzzing of the radio in the hall, but he understands what she means and he appreciates her effort.

She is here right now, with him, she tells him; and that is all that matters.

"Rukia."

His hands find the sides of her face, cups them; forehead-to-forehead. Her cheeks has a soft ephemeral glow of pink, a beautiful contrast against her porcelain white skin. He could sense her stiffening a bit at his touch, but he understands that it is nothing except her own sense of self-consciousness unfurling in front of him.

He thinks this side of her is alluringly cute, and he flashes that infamous smile of his that he reserves specially for her, and all she could do is stare at him; her insides fluttering for what must be the umpteenth time.

His breath is hot against her freezing skin, and she shudders as she tries not to melt under his radiating warmth.

They stood like that for a while, drinking in the sight of each other's face, saving every little detail for remembrance for later.

"Ichigo."

The sound of her silvery voice breaks through the stillness around them, as sharp as a butter knife and he finds himself moving again. He brings her face closer to his, both hands trembling a little as he tries to control the overflowing emotion that threatens to burst out of his heart; lust and love flaring in his veins and he thinks that a warning sign must have gone out in his brain, because at that moment his breath hitches in his throat and he feels almost as if he is drowning. She stares into his loving eyes, her heart breaking at what she saw within those amber pools, and closing her eyes again, she inches forward, on her tiptoes, and closes the distance between them; gently brushing her own lips against his. The kiss is soft and chaste, and she feels like breaking and she feels her eyes grow wet; his whole body trembles, but he lets his hands travel down her neck, her chest; he pauses for a while, aware of the speed at which her heart races, before his hands return to her face as he pulls her closer still for a deeper kiss.

"Rukia," he breathes heavily, panting, his voice hoarse.

Outside, the world continues to rotate, and time trickles away, softly, quietly, relentlessly. Behind those faded walls, they waste away, together, drowning under a sea of sheets, no longer talking; only soft moans, shrill cries, desperate pleas and the utterance of both his and her names fills the room.

More white rings dancing, more white dust floating.

Floating, floating, until everything is completely white.

* * *

**Author's thanks: **Thank you for reading! And if you think the ending feels rushed and needs fixing/to be longer, just say the word, and I'll poke around and see what I can do. Reviews/comments welcomed. Cheers!


End file.
